Rose, rather bewildered, followed her. A few paces from the closed door she stood still, while Dorothy, going on, called gently, “Susie Colkett,” and knocked as she spoke.
“Oh, it’s you!” said the mistress of the house, as she came forward to the doorway.
“Yes; Miss Lyndsay came up with me. Dear me! I’m that tired!”
Mrs. Colkett, from her grim height of leanness, looked sharply at the speaker. “That ain’t common with you.” Then she came out and went up to Rose. “Won’t you come in?” she said. “It ain’t much of a house, but poor folks has got to put up with what they can git.” The stooping carriage, the high, red cheek-bones, and the large, yellow teeth struck the young woman unpleasantly. That the mother said nothing of the dead child within seemed strange.
“I—I couldn’t now,—not now,” said Rose, gently. “I wanted to say we were all so—so very sorry for you. It’s only just a year last week that my own little brother died, you know.”
“And, Susie, it was the same thing, oh, just the same,” said Dorothy, softly.
“My father would like to know if there is anything you want; anything—really anything we can do?”
“No,” she said. At one moment she was filled with eager greed to get all that was to be had out of these fine people; at the next she was shaken by a storm of anger at the contrast between these deaths. She had a crude remembrance of the decencies and order of the funeral of Harry Lyndsay, and then of Joe coming in with the rough coffin, of the place back in the woods where her two children lay in unmarked graves. On such recollections the mere brutalness of love of her offspring dwelt with savagery of comment. She had seen the small stone which had been set over the little Lyndsay, in the late spring, just before the family had come upon the river. These things had been in her mind for days, and now it was hard to conceal her feelings She would have liked to take an ax and break the modest memorial of their dead. She said, merely, “No, no!” to Rose, and then, shortly, “Joe and me are much obliged, miss.”
“You will let us know if we can help you?” Her visible emotion Rose, very naturally, misinterpreted. Dorothy stood by, grave, silent, and watchful.
“Where’s your man?” she said, as Rose bade good-by and turned away. Joe, stunned, half afraid of his masterful temptress, had remained in the cabin. “Oh, Susie,” added Dorothy, in lower tones, “I hope he hasn’t been drinking again?”